


as i recall (you were looking outta place)

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Cigarettes, Gen, purposely out of character because we do spontaneous things when we're grieving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12589296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Damian had not often felt like a sin, before. He's not sure if he will tomorrow.But that's tomorrow.Right now is today.-A scene between grieving brothers when Bruce is lost in time.





	as i recall (you were looking outta place)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Cigarette Daydreams" by Cage The Elephant.

There’s a chilly breeze from the open window.

Damian steps through penthouse, heedfully placing his feet silently.

It doesn’t matter. Dick hears him anyway. He’s outside, looking out over the city. The boy can see his back through the white dress shirt, spine notched and curved. The material flutters in the wind.

The air smells of smoke. Dick lifts the cigarette to his mouth, balancing it between his teeth as he situates his glass.

The ice clinks. Damian sets his jaw.

“You know,” Dick says, voice shallowly amiable, “my parents smoked. I never did, but it smells like them. I can remember practices, sweaty mats, costumes, the smell of the lights. But them.” He leans his elbows on the rail. Several moments pass before he sighs. “They smelled like warm cigarettes.”

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, placing it between his two forefingers. He takes a sip from the glass, and Damian can practically feel the burn of the bourbon in his throat. He remembers when Mother drank, late in the evenings when the sun disappeared. The interlace on the ceiling gleamed and reflected her figure. Damian had crouched behind a pillar, consumed by the shadows. He watched her. She watched him, sometimes, when she thought he was asleep. It was only fair, he told himself as she stared off into the distance, hand still on her glass. It was only fair.

Dick takes a drag from his cigarette, tongue flicking over his teeth. The taste of smoke and bourbon is raw. Grimy.

But it fits.

The wind whips over the terrace, rustling their dark hair and making Damian’s ears go numb. Dick takes another drink. A drag. A drink. A drag.

Damian stands, looking at him. He doesn’t understand why he’s doing this, but he is.

A drink. A drag.

The repetition is soothing, in a way. Even though Damian knows the action is not fueled by desire, but desperation.

Desperation disguised as desire. 

Like when Damian would allow himself to be caught, allow the punishment. Allow the humiliation, because, in the far-off corner, he could see her. 

“I can’t remember my father’s face,” Dick mentions off-handedly. His eyes survey the building tops, turrets and flatheads like a silver toolbox in the distance. “Not even his eyes. Every time I try, they turn…”

Cold. Blue. Stern.

(Bright, laughing) 

Dick sets down his glass on the mini-bar. The chink is the only sound on the rooftop, aside from the wind.

Damian thinks of that sound, the chink and how it echoed in his father’s study. He remembers hiding in the vents, peeking between the bars. Father always drank after Damian. Talking to him, yelling at him, seeing him. He drank as if the liquid purged the boy from his mind.

Like purging a sin.

Damian had not often felt like a sin, before. Only when his grandfather looked over him at times, eyes green and tinged with disgust. “He wants you to be the best,” his mother had assured him when the moments occurred, hands smooth. “He does not like failure, least of all from his beloved ones.” Damian had memorized her words by rote, so that by the age of six he no longer sought her out. She lied to him besides. Grandfather merely looked at him like that sometimes, and it was not brought on by Damian’s actions.

Now. Now he was a sin, always always always. 

Something his father would rather forget, but had to keep an eye on. The man watched his sin, breathing, sleeping, screaming.

So it was only fair, Damian told himself. It was only fair that he had watched him back.

Dick flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinding the flame under his heel. His eyes cast over the city, the damned city. There is noise below, tire screeches and blaring horns, but up here…it is quiet.

Quiet.

Dick takes a breath.

“My dad is dead.”

The wind suddenly breaks, releasing its hold on silence. The quiet shatters, and both can hear the sounds of the city below. Dick closes his eyes and he can see the red lights of taxis.

“Yeah,” he admits, shuddering through a whisper. “My dad is dead.”

Damian watches him. He knows Dick watches him on patrol, watches him when his hands are tight and knuckles tense. But he knows that Dick watches him when he ties his shoes, watches when he measures the juice to water perfectly. Watches his facial expressions. Watches him during his repose, and Damian knows the young man prays during those moments.

So Damian, in turn, watches him.

Watches when the space around his eyes grows tight. Watches when his smile is dim. Watches when he stares off into the distance, hand still on the cowl. 

It’s only fair.

“I can’t remember my father’s face,” Dick says again, more to himself. He pours himself another drink. Damian can see the planes of his back through the white dress shirt. The material flutters in the wind.

Leftover smoke is still in the air. 

‘I can’t remember my father’s hands,’ Damian wants to say, but doesn’t. It would only hurt the man more. ‘Every time I try, they turn…’

Dick reaches out, free hand bunching Damian’s sweater. The boy allows himself to be brought closer as the sky darkens above. The young man smells of alcohol and nicotine and wind-blown regret.

‘I should have never said the things I did,’ Dick wants to say. Or ‘it’s important to love people while they’re here, because the next moment–they’re gone.’

But he doesn’t.

Damian settles next to him, leaning on the rail as the city lights start to bloom. 'I know my father’s hands are strong,’ he almost tells him. 'But I can’t remember my father’s hands. Every time I try, they turn…’

Dick exhales suddenly and drags the boy close, hugging him to his side. His hands are square. And Damian knows them.  
Damian allows Dick to rest his cheek atop his head. The man drank too much. Alfred won’t be pleased. But that is tomorrow.

Right now is today.

* * *

 

_'Every time I try, he turns into you.’_

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a birthday fic for my friend. 
> 
> P.S. I don't really respond to comments because I'm no good at communication. But I do see them, and thanks for taking your time on my other works. It is appreciated :)


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